Iceland
by IseultLaBelle
Summary: In the aftermath of her rape, Chloe starts to view her relationship with Evan in a very different light. Ange is on hand to support her through it.
1. Chapter 1

**So this is another of my thematic/dialogue experiments- I'm not sure if that's good news or not! Most of this was written in two hours after this week's episode, and I finished off this chapter yesterday. It's really not the best thing I've ever written, but I don't think it's awful, and this was very much a 'needed to get it out my system' thing. The idea is that you notice the contrast between how Chloe's mental health is handled in chapter 1 and chapter 2- this is more of a thematic study thing than my usual style. The poem at the beginning is translated from Scots Gaelic which is why it reads a bit strange, but it's really, really beautiful, so I've left it there. **

**I'm considering a part 3 and 4 which would be posted together like these two- I have part 3 mostly sorted but I'm struggling a bit with part 4, which would be set in the same place as chapter 2. So if you would like more of that second style in chapter 2 and you have any suggestions, please do send them my way! **

**Just to warn as well that both chapters contain references to self-harm, and chapter 2 does feature cohesive control and minor violence. **

**As ever, reviews would make me very happy! **

**-IseultLaBelle x**

_At another time, I saw a circle about the moon: _

_At the end of summer when love_

_Disappeared from sight._

_A restless season til the healing spring,_

_But with time, I noticed the sun._

\- _Circle About The Moon, Catriona Montgomery. _

She's pulled from sleep by a gentle knocking on her bedroom door, light flooding in from the landing as the door is pushed open, not all the way, but enough to ensure she wakes.

The light would have woken her, anyway, she reasons, but the knock most likely wouldn't have, not normally.

Clearly, she's still on high alert, protective mode well and truly activated.

Apparently, that goes for both of them, because the formerly still form in the bed beside her stirs now, too, groans softly, confused.

"It'll be Chloe," Ange whispers in explanation, pushes herself up into a seated position, brushes her fingers lightly against his arm. "I need to make sure she's alright, I might have to…"

"It's fine," Fletch murmurs in response, squeezes her hand in a gentle gesture of support as she slips away from him, pads towards her bedroom door. "Do whatever you need to do."

"Chloe?" Ange calls carefully, pushes the door fully open. "Chloe?"

Chloe stands on the other side of the door, trembling violently in Ange's favourite Wham Farewell Tour t shirt over her own polar bear pyjamas, another of Ange's children's section bargain Christmas present finds.

Anything with animals on and Chloe is usually happy, as long as she cuts the 'age 13-14' part off the labels.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, as though she's been crying, eyelids drooping heavily, tell-tale sign she's only just woken, too, still half asleep.

Or she's still in immediate post-panic-attack-territory, disassociated, shaken, not entirely sure where she is, what's going on around her.

"Chloe?" Ange tries again. "Chloe, are you alright, sweetheart? Can I touch you? Yeah? I'm just going to put my arms around you, okay? There you go. You're alright." She lets out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding as Chloe practically throws her arms around her neck, clings on, apparently not so half-asleep she barely knows where she is after all. "Oh, okay. Okay, sweetheart, I've got you. I've got you now. Shall we get you back into bed, Chloe? I'll stay with you, if you want? We can talk, if you need to? But I think we should get you back into bed first, shouldn't we? You look exhausted."

Chloe just nods weakly, doesn't even look up.

She looks so fragile.

She looks fragile, bird-like, shaking like a leaf and Ange truly can't tell if she's awoken from a nightmare and the events of the last few days have all become confused and conflicted in her head or if she's just struggling with it all so much that knowing that it's over, that she's safe, isn't making a difference.

"Alright. Alright, that's what we'll do, then," Ange decides. "I'll come in with you, sweetheart, that's fine. We can do that. It's probably not helping being in a strange room by yourself, is it. That's fine. You don't have to sleep in there by yourself if you don't want to."

"Fletch…" Chloe begins faintly.

"He won't mind, my lovely girl. He won't mind, I promise. We'll blame me, if that's easier? We can tell him I didn't want to leave you in the spare room by yourself, that's fine. Come on, you're practically still asleep, aren't you? Aren't you, darling? Hold onto me, then." She wraps her arms around her waist, scoops her up, gentle, but firm, koala grip.

She's aware she's talking to her like she's a good twenty years younger than she is, if not more, but no part of her cares.

"I'm too heavy, Mum," Chloe protests sleepily, though she wraps her legs around her back all the same, rests her head against Ange's, hair tickling against her cheek, far too tall for this, really, when she's just about taller than her mother, nowadays.

"No, you're not. There's nothing of you, sweetheart, don't be so silly."

It's true.

She's too tall, yes, but she's also feather-light, fragile, hip bones jut out awkwardly.

She's barely eaten for weeks now, Ange reminds herself grimly.

God only knows how, but she needs to persuade her to eat.

It was bad enough that she sent Chloe off on her ill-fated retreat to Cam's mother's country cottage with half the local Tesco and overpriced takeaway sushi in the hope of persuading her to eat.

How on earth is she supposed to persuade her to eat now, when the situation is even worse?

Or the aftermath, at least.

Because technically, it's over; it's been over for days now.

But it's perfectly clear Chloe doesn't see it that way.

Not yet.

She carries her through back into the spare room; her baby girl who's a baby no longer, not in the literal sense, but she'll always be _hers_. She lowers her down onto the bed gently, covers already pulled back, messily discarded.

She lets go of her only as long as it takes to move around to the other side of the bed, sit beside her, pull the covers up around her, cocoon, her delicate little butterfly.

"Do you want to tell me?" Ange asks quietly. "Chloe, sweetheart? Do you want to talk about it, or do you want to just go back to sleep? It's up to you."

"Will you stay?" Chloe whispers shakily, pleads with her, and Ange can't see her in the dark, but she can picture the look of helpless desperation in her eyes only too well.

"Of course I will. If you want me to stay, then that's what I'll do, alright? See?" She pulls back the covers on her own side of the bed, slips in, curls up next to her until Chloe is in her arms, pressed up against her chest, until she's holding her so tightly that she knows her little girl's breathing has been bad tonight, can feel her pulse racing furiously against her own, panicked and lethargic all at once.

"I'm staying," Ange promises. "As long as you want me to, my sweet girl. Always."

They shared a bed, until Chloe was nine.

Well, on and off, admittedly, not solidly for nine years.

Chloe started climbing out of her cot just after her second birthday and there was no way they were fitting another bed into Ange's tiny bedroom at her mother's Aberdeen two bed terraced, and so the obvious solution was for Chloe to just come in with her, instead. And there she stayed, for the next seven years; Ange started at medical school not long after and it became Chloe's room in term time, didn't seem so bad to keep on sharing during the university holidays.

It had felt rather strange, in all honesty, being home with Chloe but having her in the next room, her own room, when she'd finally scraped together the money for a house deposit when Chloe was almost ten, moved across the street into their own place, Ange finally fully independent at the not so unreasonable age of twenty-six, if it weren't for the fact she had a nine-year-old daughter.

And so maybe this is another of their weird habits that no one else has, a legacy of her medical student days, another thing Fletch will raise his eyebrows at eventually.

Though not for a while, of course.

Fletch is usually only too happy to tell her that she babies Chloe more than he babies Theo, but Ange knows he won't dare say anything with things as they are just now.

"Did you have a panic attack?" Ange tries carefully. "Chloe?" She strokes her hair slowly, methodically, not entirely sure if she's trying to guide her daughter back to sleep or calm her down enough to confide in her.

"Umm hmm."

"Why didn't you come and tell me then?" she exclaims. "Oh, Chloe. Was it because of Fletch?" she realises, all of a sudden feeling rather sick. "Did you not want to come in and get me with Fletch there, is that…"

"No," Chloe whispers. "No, I just… I couldn't… I was just trying to calm down, I couldn't… everything was spinning…"

"Okay. Okay, why don't you phone me next time, then? Yeah? You've got me down as an emergency contact speed dial thing, right? So, you just phone me next time, and I'll come straight in, alright? I promise. And if it's when you've gone back to yours- whenever that might be, you can stay here for as long as you like, Chloe- then I'll talk on the phone with you on the phone until you've calmed down. Would that work? That's what we used to do, isn't it, when you went off to med school."

"I should have grown out of this by now."

"No, you shouldn't," Ange tells her firmly, squeezes, can't bear to relax her grip on her, not while she's like this. "I'm your mum. It doesn't matter how old you get, I'll still be your mum, and I always want you to tell me when you need me. Okay? I love you, sweetheart. I hate the idea of you going through that by yourself, but especially when I'm only in the next room."

It's not quite true, what she tells her.

She doesn't believe that Chloe should have grown out of her anxiety, not as such.

That's entirely the wrong way of putting it, because it makes it sound as though she's pinning it all on Chloe.

She'll never be angry, or frustrated, or exasperated, or disappointed with Chloe for still struggling with her anxiety all these years later.

But she does wish, more than anything, that her beautiful baby girl was free of it all.

"So you promise you're going to tell me, next time?" Ange tries again. "Chloe?"

She can feel her daughter shuddering in her arms, breathing still a little laboured.

It was a bad one, Ange realises, sinking feeling in her heart.

She suddenly has a mental image of Chloe gasping for air in the dark all by herself, frantic, desperate, frightened, _Chloe_…

"I promise," Chloe tells her quietly.

"Okay. Do you need some water, sweetheart? Do you want me to go and get you some water?"

Chloe shakes her head firmly, adamant, tightens her grip around her mother's neck, and Ange can't help but wonder how much of this she'll even remember come morning. "Don't want you to go."

"I'll only be a minute. I think it'll help?" She presses her fingers to her daughter's pulse point, grimaces. "We need to get you to relax."

"I am relaxed."

"That's not what your heartrate's suggesting. I'm going to go and get you a glass of water, okay? I'm coming right back, you just keep taking nice deep breaths for me. Calm, Chloe," she murmurs, extracts herself from her daughter's grip, smooths the covers back down over her. "Nice and calm."

She's not entirely sure Chloe will even still be awake when she gets back, taken a little by surprise when she pushes open the door to the spare bedroom, just about manages to make out Chloe in the darkness, sat upright in the middle of the bed, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

"I'm okay," Chloe insists quickly, must realise that her mother is only going to worry. "Just… I can breathe better like this, you know? I mean, I know I can breathe either way, really, I just…"

"It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart, you don't have to explain. You do whatever you need to do, it's fine."

So she isn't as relaxed as she claimed she was a few moments ago.

Ange can't say she didn't see it coming.

"There you are. Drink that slowly, alright? That will help." She presses the glass of water into Chloe's hands, slips back into the bed beside her, arms around her, protective.

"It's alright," she promises. "You're alright now."

She's never, ever, going to let anyone hurt her baby girl again.

Chloe drinks slowly, presses her hands around the glass. "I'm sorry."

"What? You don't have to apologise, Chloe…"

"But you've got your boyfriend over." Chloe's voice trembles. "You've got your boyfriend over, and I…"

"Hey, I'm not bothered about that. Alright? I'm not the least bit bothered about that. Come here." Gently, she takes the glass of water, places it down on the bedside table, pulls Chloe into her arms. "You always come first. No matter what else changes in my life, you always, always come first. That will never change. I never want you to feel you can't tell me when you need me, my lovely girl. Fletch gets that. Our kids come first. I wouldn't be with him if he didn't understand you come first, I promise you that."

"And Dom," Chloe adds quietly.

"Yes. Yes, and Dom," Ange agrees. "But we're talking about you, aren't we?"

The truth is, she doesn't feel quite the same about Dom as she does about Chloe.

Not yet, at least.

Does that make her an awful mother?

She loves him with all her heart, of course she does.

But if she had to pick between the two of them, she'd comfort Chloe first every time, and even though she knows deep down it's because she trusts Carole completely, knows she loves her son just as much as she does she knows him better than she fears she ever will, would be of more use to him in a crisis anyway, she still feels horribly guilty.

She'd comfort Chloe first because there's no doubt in her mind that her son's adoptive mother- his real mother, really, because she gave up the right to call herself that thirty-two years ago now- would rush to his rescue whenever he needed, and so she can prioritise Chloe, the one of her two babies who only has her as her parent.

"Are you feeling a bit calmer now?" She rocks Chloe in her arms as though she's a small child again.

"Not… not awful. I'm not going to have another panic attack, or anything, I'm okay."

"But not totally back to normal, either? Alright? That's alright, I'm not going anywhere, darling. You're fine."

She remembers the first it hit her as though it were yesterday.

The responsibility that comes with being a mother, that is.

That moment never came with Dom- that says it all, really, sums up all the reasons that giving him up was the best thing for both of them. But with Chloe, she has a vivid memory of holding her in her arms in the hospital, and she'd been horribly unsettled all night, the NICU nurses had told her, heartrate all over the place, brought up all their attempts to feed her and whimpered and whimpered, but the moment Ange arrived and they let her lift Chloe out of the incubator, she calmed instantly, curled up in her arms and that was that.

That had been the moment in which she'd realised that she was the centre of Chloe's universe, her source of safety and comfort, her… her _person_.

And it's daunting, sometimes. It's daunting now more than it's ever been, because her baby has been through hell and back this week, endured the one thing she always hoped more than anything else she could protect her from, and she just doesn't know how to make it better.

But still.

Despite it all, something about holding her daughter in her arms, watching as her breathing finally starts to regulate a little and knowing it's her presence that's soothing, that's calming her down, melts Ange's heart every time.

Because she's her mum.

She's Chloe's mum, and even now, even though she's grown up and independent and far more brilliant and intelligent than she'll ever be herself, there are still some things her baby will always need her for.

And that scares her, too. Because she might still be getting to know her son, in every way imaginable, but the differences between him and Chloe couldn't be more obvious at times, and Ange just can't explain them all away as resulting from their different upbringings, no matter how hard she tries.

There's no denying that Chloe is far more emotionally dependent on her than Dom is on Carole- or on her, Carole, Lofty and everyone else in his life combined, come to that. That Dom is far less easily shaken than Chloe, less fragile, lacks Chloe's terrible, destructive coping mechanisms.

It's her fault.

There's no doubt about that.

They're both her babies, but Chloe is the one she raised herself, so what does that say about her parenting skills?

Maybe she wasn't old enough to have had Chloe, either. Maybe Chloe wouldn't have ended up with a whole host of mental health problems if she'd given her up to be adopted by Carole and Barry, too, maybe she'd never have fallen under Evan's spell…

Maybe she'd never have been raped.

Ange clings onto Chloe a little tighter.

It worries her. It worries her because she isn't going to be around forever; even with hers and Chloe's age gap, she'll be gone a good couple of decades before her daughter, or so she hopes.

She really, really needs to quit the smoking completely, get rid of the vape.

For Chloe, if nothing else, because it's a real worry.

More than ever, just now, she worries about how Chloe will cope when she isn't here anymore, because it's going to happen one day, she knows it is. And right now, she just can't see how Chloe will manage, and it terrifies her.

It could all be different by then, of course. Chloe could have a family of her own, a husband, children, grandchildren, even. A whole support network, she could be absolutely fine.

Or she could not be.

She desperately needs to help her babies learn to love each other, Ange decides.

They need each other.

And even if they don't realise it now, they will one day.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Ange asks softly. "Sweetheart? Did you have a nightmare?"

Chloe shakes her head. "Just…"

"Just?"

"Just… stuff that happened in Iceland." Chloe fidgets, braids a handful of Ange's hair absentmindedly, her classic anti-anxiety technique she's been using since she was tiny. "I don't know, I just… I'm starting to see things differently, I guess."

"With _him_?"

Chloe nods weakly, and Ange thinks her heart might just break.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not…" Her daughter shakes her head again, lets go of her hair, rests her head against her chest instead. "Not right now. Just… it's not anything… not like _that_, Mum. It's really not. Just… you know. Just stuff. Things he said that… that maybe I realise I didn't see like they really were, before. But it's okay. I'm fine."

"Okay. I'm here though, sweetheart. If you change your mind, if you want to talk about anything, I'm right here. Are you done giving me a hair makeover?"

"I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to apologise for, Chloe. Nothing. Do you want to try and sleep? Yeah? I'll stay here with you, I promise."

"Mum?"

"Hmm?"

Chloe shudders, allows herself to be guided back down onto the mattress, curls back into Ange's side. "It doesn't matter."

"You sure?"

"… No."

"Oh, sweetheart. Okay. I don't know what to do with you, Chloe," Ange sighs. "Talk to me? Can I do anything to make it better, can I…"

"No one's ever going to find me attractive, are they?" Chloe whispers.

"What? Of course they are. You're beautiful, sweetheart." She squeezes Chloe's shoulders, pulls her closer, wishes she could transfer some of her strength through to her by osmosis. "You're beautiful, and you're kind, and you're clever, and you're brilliant, and you just need to give yourself some time to heal, and then I promise, you will find someone who really, truly loves you, and appreciates you for you. I promise, Chloe. Where's this coming from all of a sudden?"

She knows, of course.

She doesn't need to ask.

"How, though?" Chloe's voice trembles, on the verge of tears. "How, when I'm covered in scars?" Her free hand flies to her stomach, probes, and Ange can't see her expression in the dark, but she knows, just knows.

They've been here before.

"Hey, is that what this is about? Tiger stripes, sweetheart," she reminds Chloe gently. "Tiger stripes. They don't make you any less beautiful. I'm so, so proud of you, you know that? You've got nothing to be ashamed of, have you? Nothing. I couldn't be prouder of how far you've come. You're so brave. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you are."

"How much…?" Chloe begins, and then she shakes her head. "Mum…"

"Chloe?"

"How much would you hate me if I told you I think I've got blood on your favourite t shirt?" Chloe's playing with her hair again now, anxious, apparently fearing her reaction.

"You mean my favourite Wham t shirt you're wearing that's older than you are?" Suddenly, Ange feels sick. "I wouldn't hate you at all, sweetheart, I'd be much more worried about how you…"

"I didn't cut!" Chloe protests. "I didn't, I promise I didn't. I think I was… I just scratched myself, I don't remember doing it, I might have done it while I was asleep, I don't know, I… I didn't realise before, I promise I didn't, I only just noticed, I would have put it straight in the wash if I'd…"

"Chloe. Chloe, I'm not angry with you, sweetheart," Ange soothes. "I promise I'm not. It's just a t shirt. Okay? Maybe I can get it out, and if I can't, it's just a t shirt. It doesn't matter."

"I've probably got it all over your bedsheets too, though…"

"It doesn't matter. Chloe? Chloe, listen. I can replace them, can't I? I can't replace you. You've got your priorities all over the place, haven't you, I'm much more worried about you than some bedsheets and a t shirt. Especially if you think you did it in your sleep."

"I don't know I did it in my sleep."

"No, but you don't remember doing it, you said? See, that worries me. Am I going to have to start putting socks on your hands again?"

"What on earth are you on about, Mum?"

"Have I not told you this story before?" She hugs her tightly, squeezes, wonders how she's going to be able to let her go come morning. "You used to scratch your face in your sleep, when you were a baby. It was probably my fault, really, this would have been the first month or so I had you home, and you had proper, long fingernails at that point, but you had such tiny hands, I was too scared to try and cut them in case I hurt you. Nana wasn't any better, she never had that problem with me. You've seen my baby photos."

"You didn't master it with Dom?" Chloe clings to her as though she's afraid if she dares let go something terrible will happen, and Ange can't decide if it's residual anxiety, or if she's still in a state over whatever happened in Iceland with Evan, or if this is something else, something new she hasn't gotten to the bottom of yet.

Or is it about Dom? God, what if this is about Dom, what if Chloe still isn't over her insecurities at discovering she wasn't her mother's first baby…

"Oh, that didn't help me. You were a third of Dom's birthweight, you had the tiniest little fingers I think I'd ever seen. And I think I got Nana to do Dom's until he was about three months old, anyway, that didn't help me at all. So you ended up scratching your face in your sleep, and those scratch mitt things you get for babies were all enormous on you. Preemie baby clothes didn't really exist in the nineties like they do now. But preemie socks were a thing, so I used to put those over your hands instead. And then we went back to Glasgow for the weekend, and I got Chloe at the SARC to cut your nails for me."

"Why do I get the impression Chloe at the SARC is the reason I made it to adulthood?"

"Oi, that's harsh! Second birthday, totally. But adulthood is harsh. You were the Glasgow SARC baby, though, they loved you in there."

"That's probably because they don't get many babies in there, Mum," Chloe offers quietly, pensive. "Let alone that they'd… you know. Been with since conception."

She spits the word out like it's poison, contaminated, and that's when Ange notices.

"Oh, okay. Don't do that, sweetheart, did you know you were doing that?" She catches Chloe's hands in her own gently, holds her still. "That's what you're doing, you're scratching yourself when you're not thinking about it. I'm going to put socks on your hands, I'm deadly serious."

"I'm not a baby anymore."

"Umm, yes, you are. You're my baby. You'll always be my baby, won't you? Always. What are we going to do with you, then? Hey? Shall I go and get the first aid kit, we'll make sure you're alright for now and then we'll deal with everything else in the morning? Yeah? You need to get some sleep, sweetheart. But I'm putting socks over your hands first."

"Mum?" Chloe mumbles sleepily.

"Hmm?"

"I'm really sorry if I've ruined your Wham t shirt," she tells her again, heartfelt.

"Chloe?"

"Mum?"

"I can't help but think you're focusing on the wrong part of this."


	2. Chapter 2

**Blue Lagoon, Iceland**

**Before**

"You're not really going to go in wearing that, are you?"

His words cut through her like a sharpened blade, hurtful, unexpected- and yet not completely so, not that last part.

She's used to it, Chloe supposes, when it comes to Evan.

He's honest. He's always honest with her, tells her exactly what he thinks, even when he knows the truth might upset her, because he loves her, cares for her, wants what's best for her.

It's one of the many things she loves about him.

Isn't it?

"Oh, I…" she stammers, taken aback.

_Why are you stammering, Chloe?_ The voice inside her head scalds her. _Get a grip._ _He doesn't have to like everything you wear just because he's your boyfriend, you need to grow a thicker skin than this. _

"Well, you know." She tries to lighten her tone, act as though she doesn't care, but she does, of course.

She's desperate for his approval.

"It was all a bit last minute, wasn't it, this trip," Chloe points out, busies herself searching for an empty locker. "I didn't exactly have time to go bikini shopping, just had to throw what I had into my suitcase. I don't think I've been on a beach holiday in years. Well, not that this is a beach holiday, is it, but… you know. Anywhere requiring swimwear."

"Well, that much is obvious."

"Is it… that bad?" She drapes her towel around her shoulders, tries to make it look like the most casual gesture in the world, natural, solving the problem of what to do with it while she rummages through her purse for an Icelandic krona for the locker, places her bag inside.

_Why didn't you try it on? For god's sake, how stupid are you, why did you not try it on in front of a mirror before you packed it? Anyone would think you want to embarrass him in public, you're ridiculous._

She hadn't even thought about it, in the changing cubicle.

Just moments ago, she was neatly folding up her clothes, gathering her hair into a ponytail, just about recovered from the cold chill of spring snow in Iceland and ready to brave it all over again, run across the lagoon barefoot and momentarily freezing in the name of the thermal waters and sulphuric mud her mum had been so excited about, before she'd decided she had too much on at work and it would be better for her to take Evan, instead.

Chloe had been excited, too.

Up until a few moments ago, that is.

"Well, it's okay, I guess. It'll do. It's just a bit…" Evan raises his eyebrows.

"A bit?"

"I just didn't realise you'd filled out so much, since you've been away from Caple Cross. That's all. Which is a good thing. Obviously," Evan tells her, though his expression tells a different story, ever-so-slight trace of revulsion in his eyes. "I mean, we both know you were struggling with food, don't we, right before we broke up and you went all radio silence on me. It comes hand in hand with your self-harming, I know that. I'm just surprised, that's all. In a good way. I'm glad you've been doing so much better since you've been in Holby with Ange."

"But you think I look…" Chloe blinks hesitantly, struggles with fastening the locker key around her wrist.

"Fat? No, of course you don't." Evan reaches out for her wrist, somehow manages to secure her locker key wristband in one clean stroke. "Okay… well, that bikini isn't the best look on you. Not exactly flattering, is it? That's all I mean. You're not fat. I just… wouldn't have chosen that one. That's what I meant."

_You look awful_, the voice in her head taunts gleefully. _He's trying to tell you that you look awful, he wants to be truthful but he knows he'll upset you, so he's tiptoeing around it. He thinks you look awful, what he wants to tell you is you've gained weight and you look fat…_

"Do you think…" Chloe wraps her arms around herself, sick feeling building in the pit of her stomach. "Do I look awful? Are people going to look at me and think I look…"

"No, I don't think so." Evan shrugs, slams his own locker door. "And even if they do, you're never going to see them again, are you? So what does it matter?"

_Except it does matter. Of course it matters. You don't care if you're never going to see any of the people here again or not, do you, it doesn't make a difference. They're still going to be looking at you thinking you're fat, the whole time you're here, they're going to be staring at you and thinking you look…_

"Sorry, Chloe." Evan seems to realise he's upset her now, reaches out to brush her arm affectionately. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I was just… surprised, that's all. I just always thought if you managed to gain some weight, you'd be… better endowed, I guess. Just… maybe lay off the craft beers the rest of the trip, yeah? If you're feeling self-conscious. We can always go on a health kick, when we get back."

"What, you… you think I need to?" She follows Evan along the corridor towards the lagoon entrance, hovers, sudden chill hitting her from the open doors.

All of a sudden, Chloe isn't so sure she wants to go out there, after all.

She wonders if she'd rather head back to the hotel, curl up in a ball and cry.

"Well, I'm just thinking of you." Evan takes her towel from her, pushes her gently towards the showers, slams the controls, lukewarm water raining down on her like a sharp jolt back down to earth. "I'm just… it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, forget I said anything."

"No, it's alright. Tell me." She steps out of the shower slowly, tentatively, chest tightening, all-too-familiar sensation of anxiety building up within her.

"Hold the towels?" Evan smiles at her sympathetically, almost as if he pities her, runs a hand through his hair as the water washes over him.

_You don't deserve him, Chloe. Do you really think you're good enough to be with him? He could do so much better than you, you're lucky he hasn't moved on already, the way you've been lately. You're pathetic. You're fat, and you're pathetic, and every time he tries to have an adult conversation with you about something you don't want to hear you turn into a panicky mess again. It's ridiculous, You're ridiculous, Chloe. _

"All I meant," says Evan softly, places his hand on the small of her back, guides her out the doors to the pool side, and suddenly his touch feels as though it's burning her, hands strangely hot against the cold bite of Iceland in April. "Is you don't know what you've got coming at you from the other side, genetically speaking, do you? You might have a great metabolism now, but you don't know how long it's going to last, not when you've only got Ange and her family to go by. Doesn't hurt to watch it. Shall we go and see what all the fuss is about, then?"

Chloe nods absentmindedly. "Mum said something about sulphuric mud that's supposed to be good for your skin."

"She did? Sounds… interesting."

"I think you can put it on your face, and stuff. You know, like a face mask." She drapes her towel across the nearest sunbed, bites her lip. "Evan?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you sure I don't look terrible?" She stands at the top of the steps into the water, dips her toes over the edge, can't quite bring herself to jump in.

_You can't jump. Don't you dare jump, Chloe, it'll be like a bomb going off. Everyone will stare at you. _

"You look fine," Evan assures her. "You've got nothing to worry about. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I think it's brilliant, how brave you are. I'd have gone for a one piece, if I were you."

"Because you think I look fat?"

_Slow your breathing down, you stupid girl. Slow your breathing down or you're not going to be able to calm yourself down again, is that what you want? You can't have a panic attack here. You're embarrassing him enough already, Chloe, if you don't sort yourself out, do you really think he's going to want to go anywhere with you again if you keep this up? _

"Of course not. Because of your scars. I mean, that's why you cut there, isn't it? So no one will see. I thought you'd want to cover up more, that's all. But I'm glad you don't. You should own it. You know, let people stare. Be proud of how far you've come."

Her heart stops, breath catches in her throat; cold… hard, somehow, like it's choking her, suddenly impossibly difficult to remember to breathe.

_In and out, Chloe. For god's sake, breathe. _

"Are they… are they really obvious?" Anxiously, bile rising in her throat, Chloe glances down at the mess of silver and crimson slashes littering her stomach, and it hadn't even crossed her mind, before Evan's comment, she's been doing so much better lately.

But all of a sudden, now, she feels horribly embarrassed.

Evan pauses, grimaces a little. "I mean… I think it's pretty obvious what they are, yes. But that's nothing to be ashamed of. Like I said, I'm glad you don't feel you have to cover them up. And it's not like you don't have them on your arms too, is it?"

"You can't really see them there, though." Chloe fidgets awkwardly, shivers, knows she should just step into the water and then all of her problems will be solved, but somehow, she's rooted to the spot, self-conscious, panicked, can't seem to force herself to move. "It's different…"

"But it doesn't have to be," Evan points out. "You just need to be confident, that's all. Accept your scars are a part of you, and all that. And anyway, you've been better, recently, right?"

His gaze is fixed on her stomach now, fingers reach out to trace over the marks there as though he's checking up on her, counting, and she pushes him away; bats, really, because she doesn't want to hurt him covers the worst of the damage she's done to herself over the years with her hands and practically runs down the steps into the water, ducks under until her shoulders are covered, safe, hidden, still just as self-conscious but at least no one can see.

"Just… only a couple of times, recently," Chloe confesses quietly to Evan, trailing along behind her. "After… after everything with Holly. But I'm fine."

Because she is fine.

She really is.

The salt and the sulphur sting against the still-healing cuts to her abdomen, but she can't complain, not when she put them there.

_Except you're not fine, are you? You're not fine at all, you're pathetic. You're a freak, that's what you are, as soon as something throws you it's like you just can't help yourself, you're cutting again like some attention seeking teenager. Pathetic, Chloe. Pathetic. No wonder your mum didn't want to come with you, after all, she thinks you're pathetic, too._

"Want to go deeper?" Evan half-floats, half swims, lazily, out into the middle of the lagoon, and Chloe follows him, pulls her legs up to her chest, just in case someone should dive beneath the surface and swim past and see from underwater, see how weak and pathetic and ugly and scarred and… and _fat_, she is.

She's a decent swimmer.

She wouldn't go as far as to say she's a strong swimmer, but summers spent at her great grandparents' cottage on the Isle of Skye as a child have ensured that she can hold her own; her great grandparents were a little more relaxed, but her nana always worried about letting her swim in the ocean, watched her like a hawk, barely let her out the shallows even with her great grandfather right beside her, until Chloe convinced her she could hold her own. And she grew up in Aberdeen, after all.

The North Sea framed one part of her childhood, the Atlantic Ocean the other.

She's perfectly happy in deep water- much, much deeper than the deep end of the Blue Lagoon, only just deep enough that her toes can't reach the bottom, that she can't stand.

That's how she knows it isn't the water that freaks her out.

"Breathe, Chloe," says Evan quietly. "Breathe. Don't make a huge scene. Come on, breathe. Calm yourself down."

_See? You're pathetic. You need to get a grip, Chloe, this isn't normal. You know that, don't you? This is so, so far from normal, why can't you just hold yourself together like everyone else? Why can't you be normal? You're repulsive as it is, you're not doing yourself any favours behaving like this. Pull yourself together, for god's sake. What's wrong with you? _

"Chloe, come on." Evan's arms are around her now, and he's just a little taller than her, must have enough in the way of extra inches of height she hasn't because he gathers her into his arms as her breathing enters into erratic, shaky territory, the kind of panic attack during which she can't even seem to process all the thoughts of utter self-loathing going on in her own head, seems to breathe in but her attempts to take in oxygen are so short and sharp and useless that it seems to achieve nothing, feels like she's suffocating, like she's going to die, she's going to die, because she can't breathe…

_Except you can breathe, if you put your mind to it. You're not dying, stupid, but you will if you don't remember how to fucking breathe. Are you stupid? Everyone else can manage it, why can't you? Just breathe, Chloe. Just breathe for god's sake, breathe._

"Breathe, Chloe. Calm down. Remember your breathing exercises. In and out." He's holding her to his chest now, and everything is spinning; she feels dizzy with the lack of oxygen and she can't seem to regain control, can't breathe, she _can't_… "What else is it you do that helps? Chloe? Chloe, breathe. I'm here. I'm not going to let go of you."

He seems to have let her slip down his torso. Chloe isn't sure. Not so far that her face is under the water but far enough that the water is lapping at her chin, and he's gripping her tightly, firm hold, but he doesn't pull her up.

She's helpless, held against his chest but he doesn't pull her up; he must not have noticed, Chloe realises.

He must have not noticed she's slipped against him, that she's fine, safe, but she doesn't quite feel that way, feels as though she could slip further still and she can't breathe now, she can't breathe…

"Chloe? Come on, Chloe, it's just a panic attack. Work on your breathing. That's it. You need to sort your breathing out, or it's just going to keep getting worse. Breathe, Chloe." Evan rubs her back, holds her like a helpless animal, weakened, immobile, surrendered. "Is this my fault?" he asks at last, hoists her up at last, face out of the water and she shudders with the relief, breathing coming in anxiety-riddled, panicky gasps now, approaching hyperventilating territory.

"N-n-no."

It's all she can manage.

_It's you, Chloe, the voice in her head reminds her. It's you, no one else. You do this to yourself. You work yourself up into this state and then you make everyone around you feel like it's their fault, you're toxic. It's your fault. It's your fault, no one else's, why can't you just snap yourself out of it? For god's sake. Everyone's going to be staring at you if you don't sort yourself out soon, why can't you just calm down and…_

"Breathe, Chloe," Evan reminds her. "Breathe."


End file.
